Songbird_A Small-Town Romantic Comedy

by Caroline Tate

  "You're being very mysterious, Ellie. I thought I would've at least heard from you about the press release by now. Had to resort to calling you at work since you wouldn't answer any of my texts."

  Oh, my God. The newspaper came out yesterday, and I've been so consumed with finding a replacement band that it never even registered. Ever since Mason promised to write the piece, the press had slipped my mind entirely. It wasn't even a blip on my radar.

  "We've been getting calls, Ellie. Non-stop. About your event."

  "Wow, really? That's wonderful," I say, hurrying to Hank's closed office in the back of the shop. Opening the door, I spot a pile of newspapers and grab it, quickly leafing through the papers until I find yesterday's segment.

  "You were right about this. There's a huge interest in our online media, as well. People are hitting social media hard."

  My heart swells as I finally locate the article titled Stars Over Southport, A First For Local Music. "Hang on," I tell Mason, pulling the phone away from my ear. Speed-reading, I glance over his written words. My piece would have been no good in the paper, but his is amazing. He described the bands with more emotional but objective detail in 800 words than I could have done in 8,000. Realizing his genius, I need to find a way to thank him. Picking the phone back up, I grin at him and hope he can hear it. "You did such a great job on the piece, Mason." I try not to swoon about it, but my stomach feels like butterflies are dancing in it. "Thank you so, so much. You have no idea. This piece will mean the world to Charlie."

  Annoyance edging out his voice, Mason responds. "Just to Charlie?" Clearing his throat, he hesitates, and I can tell he wants to say something. When he speaks again, his voice is much softer and holds no emotion. "Ellie, do you even want to come tonight?"

  A weird emotion building in my chest, I scoff at the absurdity. "Yes. That's a dumb question, Mason. Of course I do." And for the first time with Mason, I'm surprised at how much I actually mean this. Meeting his family, attending his sister's party, going to the Sweet Tennessee show together with Beth. Those all feel like items to check off on the girlfriend list, and for the first time, I wonder if Mason considers me as such. I don't know that I mind it. In fact, the thought of me being his actual girlfriend as opposed to his fake one excites me. "Hey, I'm sorry I've been a little distracted lately. Things have just been crazy."

  "Good crazy or bad crazy?" Mason asks, sounding more like himself after a deep breath.

  "I'll explain everything when you pick me up after my shift."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mason

  Ellie had given me the address to her house this morning on the phone before we hung up. I told her I'd stop by and pick her up at three. I was proud of my Southern Gentlemen accent when I told her to be ready for a good, old-fashioned night of fun out on the Raleigh town. To which she said I sounded like a rickety old man chasing off young whippersnappers. God, she gets me.

  Her flightiness had been disconcerting earlier in the week though. Ever since we returned from Wilmington. I feel like that was a good trip for us. But I still hadn't been able to get her to answer a single one of my text messages. I would've thought with the press release hitting the stand yesterday, she would've at least reached out to me. The thought does cross my mind that maybe she used me for the article. Now that it's out, she's done with me. And if that's the case, it was well worth it.

  What do I even say to her when I pick her up? I missed you, Ellie. Please text me, Ellie. I hate it when you go radio-silent, Ellie.

  Is it weird to miss someone you hardly even know? Yes, indefinitely. But something about her presence in my life brings me excitement. Comfort. Thrill. Knowing Ellie is like reading the perfect book all the way through but not picking up on every detail. So you read her again, closer this time just to soak in all the meaning of her. Flipping through her thin pages, line-by-line, word-by-word. Character-by-character. You want to know her. You want to know all of her.

  When I pull up to Ellie's house, I first notice the simplicity of it, the complete lack of decor. She's sitting on the front stoop, her wrist subconsciously draped over her knee like she's holding a cigarette that isn't there. When my tires hit the gravel, she pops up with a silly smile, and before I can entirely shut the door to the car, she stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck, burrowing her face into my shoulder. An unexpected gesture. Her spicy citrus scent engulfs me, and I think I feel my dick swell.

  "Thank you so much, Mason. You are so good to me."

  Smiling at her enthusiastic greeting, I wrap my arms around her waist. "You're welcome." With a playful grunt, I spin us around in a circle as her feet fly out from beneath her.

  With a squealing laugh, she yelps my name. But when I place her back down on the gravel, she straightens her face as if she doesn't want me seeing her pleasure.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  I cock a curious eyebrow at her. "How exactly am I looking at you?"

  She drops her head to the side and purses her lips. "Like you just won the lottery," she says, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  It's cheesy, but I shrug. "So maybe I did."

  She grins, rapture radiating off of her like a beam of light. Swear to God, this girl must be made of light from the brightest star.

  "You ready?" I ask, trying to tone down my voice.

  She nods, heading for the passenger side.

  Scrubbing a hand over my jaw in confusion, I hesitate. "Ellie, don't you need your stuff?"

  Oblivious, she shrugs and pats the back pocket of her light wash high-waisted jean shorts. "Keys, phone, wallet," she says, more to herself than to me. "I'm ready."

  "Your overnight stuff? Toothbrush, set of clothes?" While she stares at me blankly, I finish my sentence not being able to hide my smile at her mysticism. "Nothing?"

  When she speaks, her voice splits in tone. Guarded, a little more harsh than I've heard it today as if I've offended her. "What? You want to borrow some lipstick or something?"

  Now on edge, I push past her joke. "Ellie, it'll be after twelve by the time we get Beth home from the show. I asked if you were okay with staying the night. You seemed alright with it, but—"

  "Oh." She glances over to my car, and I don't understand how, but I can sense a piece of her internal panic. "Okay, yeah," she says with a tight smile, turning toward the house. "Let me go grab my stuff. Just a second."

  She rushes past the bright pink Azaleas framing the front of her bungalow and lets herself in, leaving the door to swing open wide. As she disappears inside, I can't help but linger near the doorway. From what I can see, her living room is dark and bare aside from a tiny couch and her laptop that's sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor. My heart suddenly goes lonesome for her living in this place alone.

  I hear the knocking of dresser drawers coming from what I take to be her bedroom, and her voice rises and falls in a muted, frantic animation.

  And I must be losing my ever-loving mind. Because even the fact that she talks to herself looks cute as hell on her.

  When she sounds close to being ready, I edge back out toward the stoop and kick at some loose gravel to make myself look busy.

  She whips back into my line of sight. I see her stoop down and pet a cat, her voice lilting a sweet goodbye. And I vow, right here in this moment. I will never tell her that I hate cats. In fact, never have I met a cat I liked.

  Bolting out of the house, she locks the door behind her.

  "Bit of a minimalist?" I ask, nodding to her empty living room that's now behind the closed front door.

  When she spins to face me, she's out of breath and is carrying a khaki canvas tote.

  "Long story."

  Standing there, I soak in the full view of her, and for the first time today, I notice her hair. It looks darker than I remembered, the few waves that frame her face, lazy and inviting. She's wearing a navy blue T-shirt with a pocket. And for some strange reason, I want to press my palm to her chest so I can feel her
heartbeat. I'd bet my life savings that it moves at the tempo of a Boxley Brother song.

  Staring at me, she furrows her brow. "What are you looking at?"

  Shaking my head, I scratch the back of my neck. The azaleas catch my eye again, their bright hue contrasting the sad lack of grass in her yard. "Your bush. It's really nice."

  She bursts out into intoxicating laughter. "Oh my God, Mason. You haven't even seen my bush."

  I cup an idiotic hand over my mouth now realizing how the comment sounded. And though I didn't mean for it to come out that way, the laughter that falls from Ellie's lips leaves me reeling, losing myself across from her.

  Meeting her at the stoop, I take her bag and load it in the back seat. Opening the passenger side door, I grin at her. The gentle, grateful expression on her face sparks some sort of deep-seated fire in me. Yes, in my dick but also in my mind. Something I haven't felt in a very, very long time.

  She ducks underneath my arm, pausing to look at me. "If I haven't told you already, thank you," she whispers, lifting her lashes at me. "You may be a nerd, but you're a chivalrous one."

  And I feel like the luckiest man on this earth.

  We merge onto Route 133 heading north toward Raleigh. Though I love Southport, I'll be glad to see the city in the rearview mirror with Ellie by my side this afternoon. Stressful as work has been lately, I need a night away even though it is way too soon for this girl to meet my family. But no titles, no expectations with her. She's made that clear, and I'm okay with it.

  Leaning back in her seat, Ellie looks over at me. “Can I put my feet up?” she smirks.

  I laugh, her question catching me completely off guard. "Don’t think that’s a great idea," I chuckle nervously.

  With a cute, exasperated huff, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I knew you were going to say that. Would hate to damage the fine Corinthian leather in this joint," she smirks, dusting it off for show. She pulls a single, solitary cigarette from her shirt pocket and lays it on her bare lap. I hadn't noticed the cigarette earlier. But the fact that she has one perched there like it's a pen or a pair of sunglasses intrigues me. I'd only seen her smoke around me once. And even then, it was only until I took it away from her.

  Mindless and seemingly dazed by the cold air pouring from my vents, she rolls the cigarette between her index finger and thumb as if feeling it for the first time, channeling its seductive power.

  Peering over at her makes me feel like I'm intruding on a private, vulnerable moment. "What are you nervous about?"

  She doesn't answer for a few seconds. But when she does, her voice is small and unsure. "You mean, aside from the enormity of meeting a guys family on what can only be considered a first date?"

  Her answer surprises me, and I try to lighten the mood. "Wait, is this a date? I think you just called this our first date."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shrug as she slides the cigarette back into her shirt pocket, evading the question. "Monsoon pulled out of the festival," she says. "That alone makes me want to chain smoke, but I only brought one. I'm trying to be better."

  She's trying to be better? God. I want to tell her she couldn't be better if she were helping Atlas hold up the sky. But the heart on this girl. I swear, her aura is palpable. Maybe I'm biased.

  "Have you found a replacement yet?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. "No. If I did, I wouldn't be so worried about it. I emailed a couple of local bands. Even two from Wilmington. But everyone is either booked solid or doesn't want to commit to something that may end up being a bust." She reaches in front of her and turns the opening of the vent down to stifle the air blowing out on her. "And if I don't find someone soon, our backer is going to have a fit."

  "Well, if it helps, we got a ton of interest on social. I can forward you some of the names, but they're mostly garage bands around Brunswick County."

  Halfheartedly, she shrugs. "We're only seven days out," she says, nervously cracking her knuckles one by one. "How in the world am I supposed to find a crowd drawer in seven days?" She throws her head back against the smooth leather headrest, and I can tell she's trying not to panic.

  "What about the Boxley Brothers?

  Looking over at me, she scrunches her face up and laughs. "You mean the Boxley Brothers? As in Cole Boxley and his sibs?"

  "Of course."

  "They probably wouldn't even take my call."

  I shrug and take the right exit to merge onto the highway. "You never know. The guys are a little unpredictable, don't you think? In fact, I think I read one of the band members is in charge of their social media. I forget which one it is, but you could always reach out through a message."

  "How do you know who runs their social?" she asks, wonder drowning her voice.

  Before I can answer, she whips her head toward me, and grinning, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. I know exactly what she's about to say, so I try to beat her to the punchline.

  "Research!" we both shout, falling into a sea of intoxicating laughter.

  When I regain my composure, I shake off the silliness that she infuses in me. "But seriously. Reach out to them. They may surprise you."

  She must think I make a good point, because she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns around in her seat, fishing for her tote bag in the back of the car. Finding it, she pulls out her cell phone, and turning it on, searches for their social media links.

  "This will be the best thing you've read today." she says, reading with a slow, calculated voice as she taps the words into her phone. Turning to me, she invites my approval. "That's an attention-grabbing first line, right?"

  Trying to suppress a smile, I nod and focus on the road ahead of us as she reads me the message she's typing, word-for-word.

  "Hi, Cole, Rhett, or whichever one of you other talented bastards ends up reading this. My name is Ellie Stone, and I'm helping to coordinate the first-ever Stars Over Southport Music Festival in you guessed it… Southport, North Carolina. Not sure if you're familiar with the area, but it's a small coastal town filled with lots of love. We're expecting something like two-thousand heads at the festival, which I understand isn't a huge number. But those two-thousand people are so full of life that they'll carry your music with them forever. Anyway, we had a crotchety band pull out of the lineup at the last minute. And while you were my first choice, I was told you guys were too big of a band to even give a shit about our piddling little festival. So won't you help me stick it to the man? We'd be honored to have you come play for us. One set, the last day of the festival, prime time spot. I've got you covered." She clears her throat. "Please call me. Day or night, and hopefully we can work something out. I'll leave my contact info below. You think I should put a smiley face?" she asks, glancing over at me.

  “Heart-eyes. Definitely.”

  "Alright," she sings, tilting her head toward me. "Hitting send now. If this works, I owe you way more than dinner."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ellie

  "Here," Mason says, handing me his phone. "Pull up the music app and play me your favorite song."

  The request takes me by surprise. "My all-time favorite?"

  "Your can't-live-without-it, life-changing, stuck-on-a-desert-island-with-my-boyfriend-Mason-and-can-only-listen-to-one-song-for-the-rest-of-forever favorite."

  Blinking at the complexity of his definition, I take a breath. I'm not sure if it's the afternoon sun glaring down on me or if I'm hot from thinking about being stranded on a desert island alone with Mason. Or that he just referred to himself as my boyfriend. Either way, I'm reluctant to play him this song. But I type Iron & Wine into his phone and click on the song that is eternally engraved on my heart.

  He smiles, his eyes growing wide at the opening guitar chords, and he knows exactly what it is.

  "‘Naked As We Came,'" he sighs, the song title dripping off his lips. "From Our Endless Numbered Days album?"

  The fact that he knows this song grows my feelings for him two sizes more substant
ial, and I want to lean over and kiss him. Hard and lustful. "It is the best. There's so much honesty in this song."

  Nodding, he reaches over, and to my complete surprise, he takes my hand in his, linking his long fingers through mine. "Beautifully sad. Says a lot about a person who would choose this song as their only."

  His grip on me is warm and feels good in the fresh air of his car as he caresses the top of my thumb with his, our fingers still intertwined. For the rest of the ride, we take turns playing our most embarrassing songs. Firing up Mason's favorite English pop girl group song, the iconic Spice Girls tune "Wannabe" from the mid-nineties, I can't help but shake my head at him.

  "What?" he begs, slamming his free hand against the steering wheel, popping the horn in excitement. "That song is a straight classic, and you know it!"

  "Yeah," I scoff. "A classic piece of garbage," I say with a laugh.

  When I play him my favorite embarrassing song, James Taylor's Sesame Street version of "Jellyman Kelly," Mason swears he needs to pull over because he's crying actual tears of laughter.

  "Don't tell me you still watch Sesame Street," he says, gasping for air. Pulling his hand from mine, he wipes tears from the side of his face and throws on a giddy, over-the-top puppet accent. "Ellie's favorite song is brought to you by the letters O M G," he howls.

  Never having heard Mason like this before in my life, I clutch my stomach that is so sore from laughter I can barely answer him. But he's right. Why in the hell did I think this song was so good? "No, but I mean that James Taylor voice! And those kids!" I yelp, hardly being able to push the words from my mouth.

  It takes us a few miles down the road before we both regain composure.

  "Wow," I say, flipping down the sun visor and swiping the smudged mascara from underneath my eyes. "Well, now I'm really embarrassed. If you think mine was awful, I'm dying to hear your favorite."